


Certain Dark Things

by Blue_Savannah



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 09:40:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7097251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Savannah/pseuds/Blue_Savannah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katniss exhales a hard rush of air, clenches her fists and leans into me. She smells like woodsmoke and mint, sharp and clean and cool — in one breath, I can smell our whole lives together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Certain Dark Things

Katniss is twelve when I first meet her.

Back then, she is only the dark haired, grey eyed girl in the Justice Building, walking up to accept a medal of valor in honor of the late Mr. Everdeen. She is only a face among the masses of the Seam — we have _all_ lost someone or something — and loss does not distinguish her.

 ~~Not then, anyway~~.

When I see her again in the woods, it takes a minute to place her as the same stoic faced girl who bit her lip bloody, unwillingly trading away a father for an _in memoriam._ Now, she’s skinny and lithe as a shadow, desperate faced, and quick handed as she tries to steal a rabbit from one of my traps.

When I accuse her, she claims innocence. “I just wanted to look at your snares. Mine never catch anything.”

I don’t believe her. I ask to see her bow, and she hands it over grudgingly; the mistrust goes both ways.

“Just remember, stealing is punishable by death,” she quips, returning my earlier barb. Her grey eyes are full of unexpected fire, her hands unconsciously clenched to fists, her stance daring me to take her on. Desperation makes her fierce — but she’s just another Seam girl who’ll do anything to survive.

She isn’t special.

 ~~Not then anyway~~.

 

——————

 

It is four days after New Year’s, three days before Katniss’s sixteenth birthday, and two months before my seventeenth.

Most notably, it’s cold as hell, the world frozen and dead under a blanket of ice. Following a heavy snowfall, the skies are black and gray, the Hob full of hollow eyes and empty hands, the air tense and thick.

Katniss and I take refuge at Greasy Sae’s to avoid the throngs, sharing a cupful of stringy soup we traded in for a squirrel. Katniss’s eyelashes are crusted with snow, and her fingertips are tinged blue. Together, we turn our coats up against the wind, and tease each other about our ~~kids~~ siblings the way ~~married couples~~ best friends do, until the redheaded peacekeeper named Darius sidles up to us. I’m sure he’s going to reprimand us for something we did, or else were supposed to have done, but instead, he ignores me, and flicks at Katniss’ braid.

I don’t know why it bothers me.

“Hey pretty girl,” he teases, folding his arms, and eyeing the soup. “Keeping warm?”

“Trying to,” Katniss agrees warily, slurping up another greasy bite. She swallows hard and swipes at her mouth with the back of her wrist.

Katniss is not polite and I have never, ever cared about it. Neither does Darius, apparently. He’s staring hard at Katniss — the curve of her jaw, the hair falling in wisps to frame her face, the serious, full lipped mouth — things I thought I was the ~~second~~ only one who had noticed.

“Trade you a rabbit for a kiss?” he offers, smiling, tickling Katniss’s cheek with the back of her braid.

She swats his hand away. Darius flirts with everything in a fucking skirt ~~but Katniss isn’t like that~~.

“Oh come on,” he leans in further, the stubble of his beard brushing Katniss’s face. “Women have traded more than just one measly rabbit for a kiss from me. Don’t you know what they say about red-headed men?”

Katniss waves Darius away, but she’s laughing and there isn’t any real intention behind her dismissal. “Stop it. You’re being ridiculous!”

If anything, Darius takes Katniss’s laughter as tacit encouragement. His hand circles her shoulder, slides down to her wrist — and something explodes behind my eyes. I punch him in the mouth, hard. It knocks Darius off balance for a second, but he recovers fast and spins around, swinging. I duck under his fist, plant my foot and kick him back down.

“What the hell, Hawthorne?” he squints at me from the ground and rubs at his jaw. “Since when do you care?”

I have to split second to think _Iamsofuckinginforthis_ , before I shrug it off, sarcastic. “What can I say? I have a defend-the-helpless complex.”

“I’ve never been _helpless_ ,” Katniss interjects angrily, planting both fists on her hips, glaring at the spilt soup, but no one is listening to her now.

We all know that the issue has never been about her capabilities. I’ve known Katniss meant business ever since she was thirteen and beat up Tobias Bargar for picking on Madge Undersee.

Darius gets to his feet, still rubbing his jaw. “See you around, Katniss.”

Katniss scowls at me, clearly unimpressed with my right hook.

Darius puts out a ban on my game for the next month, forbidding any of the merchants to buy from me, but it’s easily avoidable.

Katniss and I make up, joining forces, as always. She walks door to door outside the Seam, her arms full of squirrels and fowl, while I trade venison with the vendors at the Hob who aren’t scared of peacekeepers. I run into Darius in the square about a week later. He turns his head away and pretends not to see me.

I'm absurdly gratified to see that the side of his jaw is still bruised.

 

——————

 

Winter starts thawing into spring, while I work hard to convince myself that the way that I feel about Katniss is an accident.

My mom sees too much and thinks she knows more than she actually does. She hums to herself after Katniss stops by with fresh squirrels, and smiles when she tells me that she always knew Katniss and I were meant to be. I tell her _soulmates_ is a heavy word to throw around the breakfast table. But either way, I figure I should talk to Katniss and tell her how I feel, before the Reaping.

 ~~In case they call my name. Or hers~~.

I mull around aimlessly, deliberating the perfect moment — but I’m not good with feelings, and it’s not like I can offer Katniss much. What the hell am I supposed to say — _Hey, let's get married. I'll make sure we never starve_ _?_

One morning in early April, Katniss and I go out into the woods to hunt. The snow is mostly melted by now, and the ground drips with mud and leftover sleet. Distracted, I tread through a patch of crocus buds without realizing it, accidentally decapitating a few stalks. We shoot at a couple of birds and squirrels, bringing down three, before we get to the lake. Chunks of ice still float in the center, but Katniss plunges her hands into the freezing water by the banks, undeterred.

“Look,” she tells me, pulling out a handful of bulbous tubers, “My namesake.”

The plants are slimy and flecked with mud, and Katniss wipes off the dirt with deft fingers. Grimacing, she leans back on her hamstrings to admire her handiwork. “I guess they’re not the prettiest flowers.”

In the Seam, it’s customary to name little girls after flowers or colors— maybe because we have so little color or beauty in our own lives.

_Primrose_

_Posy_

_Clover_

~~_Katniss_ ~~

I lift my eyes to meet hers. “Maybe. But your flower is life giving. How many other flowers can say that?”

For once, I’ve found the right fucking thing to say. Katniss’s smile bends her cheeks, lights up her eyes, and makes me dizzy with wanting. Fleetingly, I think about cupping her face and tasting her. My pulse races, beating in the pads of my fingertips, and I open my mouth to say — _what?_

 ~~I love you. I always have~~.

But then a deer runs across our path, Katniss fumbles for her bow, and my possibilities go flying into space along with the arrow.

 

——————

 

Three months later, Primrose Everdeen’s name is called out at the Reaping.

She looks delicate and tiny, breakable as a little china doll when she lurches forward, and then Katniss is in motion behind her. I know the words that are going to come out of her mouth before she speaks— it’s what I would say too if Effie Trinket ever called out _Vick Hawthorne_ or _Rory Hawthorne._

Katniss is wearing a pretty blue dress, her hair braided intricately, a tiny gold pin gleaming just below her throat, for luck.

~~Since when did luck ever favor the fortuneless, anyway?~~

She’s so fucking beautiful, so fucking brave. When she turns my way for one infinitesimal second, her mouth curves up, rictus style, in the parody of a smile.

Somewhere, someone is screaming hysterically. Or maybe it’s coming from within my own head.

Hard to tell.

 

——————

 

I lean in close to her, and whisper _I’ll take care of them_ , a vow we each swore to fulfill for the other, over three years ago.

Her eyes are cool and grey and blind with shock. _I’m fine,_ she lies, shaking a little in my arms. _I’m fine._

I breathe in against the cotton of her shoulder, trying hard to swallow my panic. “Listen," I grind out, grappling for something substantial, "Getting a knife should be pretty easy, but you’ve got to get your hands on a bow. That’s your best chance.”

“They may not _have_ a bow.”

“Then make one.” I’m determined that Katniss will not go down in the arena, because the alternative is too damn awful to contemplate.

“It’s just hunting,” I nudge when she looks skeptical, eyes dropping down to the floor. I force her chin up. “And you can hunt. You’re the best hunter I know.”

“Yeah. _Animals._ ”

“So what? It’s no different.”

Katniss exhales a hard rush of air, clenches her fists and leans into me. She smells like woodsmoke and mint, sharp and clean and cool— in one breath, I can smell ~~the life we should have had~~ our whole lives together.

 

——————

 

In my dream, Katniss stands at the front door of my house, a bow slung lightly across one shoulder, and a packed suitcase resting at her feet.

“Goodbye,” I tell her, jamming my hands into my pockets, worried that if I hold onto her, I’ll never let go. Katniss smiles, like she knows what I’m thinking. She takes a step towards me, and I crush her into the doorframe, cupping her chin, kissing her desperately. We break apart unsteadily.

“You’re making it hard for me to leave, Gale.”

I trace the familiar line of her jaw. “Isn’t that the point?”

Katniss touches her lips subconsciously. Unsteadily, she says, “To win the Hunger Games, I have to murder twenty three people.”

“They’re trying to kill you first. Don’t forget that.”

She arches into me like a cat, sighing against my mouth. “Don’t you want me to come back to you?”

I have to remind myself to exhale. “Katniss, I don’t ever want you to leave.”

 

——————

 

My family starts spending most of their time over at the Everdeens in solidarity, where Katniss’s mom and sister sit unmoving, glued to the TV broadcast, sent straight from the Capitol. We’re all watching when the Capitol holds the final interviews on August 16th, and Katniss appears on stage wearing a bright red dress and an indomitable smile.

“Give us a twirl,” Caesar says, grinning maniacally at the camera, and displaying rows of over bright teeth.

Katniss plays the game, winking and twirling in a flash of scarlet, while her dress flares up at the hem around her. She’s magical and breathtaking, a thousand times removed from the scrawny girl who once upon a time tried to steal a rabbit from my snare.

 ~~I barely recognize the girl I used to know~~.

“Ladies and gentleman of Panem!” Caesar grasps Katniss’s wrist and holds it high, like a victor. “I give you — the girl on fire!”

Peeta Mellark follows Katniss on stage, and the contrast between the two of them is startling. Even dressed in silk, Katniss is all edges and planes, striking and hard and ready, while Peeta is calm and complacent. I guess it’s not that surprising. Katniss grew up a daughter of the Seam, hungry and a huntress. Peeta grew up the son of a baker.

“Is there a special girl back home?” Caesar asks Peeta, buying into the inane chatter that the Capitol has mandated precede a battle to the death.

Peeta crosses his ankles like a girl would, looking supremely at ease. “Well.”

“Well, what? Don’t keep us in suspense!” Caesar cackles, and I search in vain for something to throw at the broadcast. Posy’s tiny hand on my arm is the only thing that stops me.

“Well, there is this one girl, and I’ve had a crush on her ever since I can remember,” Peeta admits, “But I don’t think she knows I even exist.”

I have a really fucking hard time dredging up sympathy for Peeta.

“I tell you what,” Caesar’s still chucking inanely, “Let’s say you win this thing, go back to your district and then she’ll have to go out with you!”

The crowd roars approval; I scowl; Peeta’s smile hitches a little at the corners. “I don’t think that’s going to work in this case,” he spreads his hands in supplication, “The problem is that she came here with me.”

 

——————

 

They start calling them the star crossed lovers of District 12.

 _It’s good for publicity_ , Prim tries to placate me, the lines around her mouth belying her strain. _I’m sure that’s all it is._

I look at her. The only reason I’m able to meet her eyes is because she looks nothing like Katniss. Everyone in the Seam recognizes the Everdeen girls by their differences — Katniss is wild and beautiful, dark and strong, while Prim is bright and tiny, soft and fair — though life has begun to dull that same brightness. Now, her face is swollen from sleepless nights and long school days where her classmates whisper things across desks like _your sister is a dead girl walking_.

“I miss her, Prim,” I confess, trying to sound relatively lighthearted. I don’t tell her that Katniss’s loss is like an ache in my gut, sometimes, hopefully, pushed out of mind, but never ever really gone —  like something bruised on the inside of my chest.

“Me too,” Prim says, her lip twisting.

I force a smile, and cup Prim’s chin in farewell — then I disappear into the woods and sit by the river where, only a few months ago, Katniss yanked out the life giving plants for which she was named.

 ~~Katniss, giver of life.~~ ~~Katniss, my mandated murderess~~.

“How are you feeling, Gale?” Mom asks, when I stumble home, shamelessly post-curfew, with only a rabbit and half a turkey to show for it.

“There’ll be more of that tomorrow,” I say, throwing down the rabbit and skinning it in a mad fury with the flat edge of my knife.

Mom waits, undeterred by my rage and my reluctance to talk.  “Gale? She goes into the arena tomorrow.”

As if I’m not already fully fucking aware.

 

——————

 

The next morning, I go to our old meeting spot, and stay there all day, inspecting my snares and watching the sun go down. I cup my head with my hands and

_Breathe in_

_Breathe out_

I think about how after Katniss and I hunted, this is what we used to do together — sprawl aimlessly in the dirt, laugh at the sky, and dream of running away, our elbows forming a bridge between our bodies.

All those ~~wasted~~ moments between us, and I never told her how I felt.  For the first time, it feels like she’s really ~~dead~~ gone.

 

——————

 

I’m watching the broadcast the night Peeta bands with the Careers, and they chase Katniss up a tree. Someone, the blond girl from District 1 — Glimmer — shoots an arrow that ricochets too close for comfort. Katniss clings to a branch, smiles widely and calls down mockingly, “Almost. Maybe you'll get me on the next shot!”

I want to cheer for her; instead, I grip the edges of the chair so tightly that my knuckles go white.

When we were younger, Katniss and I used to watch the Games together. Back then, we’d sit somberly, reflecting on what we’d do in certain situations: _I’d go for the Cornucopia, I’d run instead, would you really hide out in the woods for that long?_ It’s unbearable to be watching alone now, worse still to be the one watching _her_ in the arena.

Glimmer fires a second arrow, another miss. She and the other Careers prowl around the base of the tree, looking angry and cagey with humiliation. Only Peeta watches the topmost tree branches with obscure eyes.

 

——————

 

In my dream, I burn down the fucking bakery.

It is nighttime and pitch black outside, when I slip out of bed, steal through the deserted streets and weave my way to the merchant side of town. The flare up of the match illuminates Katniss standing in the shadows. She’s wearing the same training outfit she wore into the Games, a skintight leather monstrosity and a dangerous smile. Her only accessory is the bottle of kerosene she hefts in her arms.

“Hey Gale,” she says, “Did you miss me?”

I drop the match in shock, while she calmly pops the top on the bottle and sprinkles small circles of kerosene across the open flames.

“Maybe a little.” My voice is hoarse and uneven and gritty. Clearing my throat, I look for my dignity, but then Katniss is throwing the kerosene aside, saying _I told you I would come back,_ and striding over to me, bridging the distance between us. I tangle my hands in her hair; the strands catch between our mouths. Hers is hot and heavy and full of need.

“The Peacekeepers will kill us for this if they catch us,” I warn, but the _girlonfire_ bites my lip and kisses me silent.

“They’ll have to catch us first,” she whispers into my mouth, and I smile because it’s always been like this: Katniss and I against the world.

We breathe each other in, heedless of the heat and the hurt and the felony.

 

——————

 

I wake up, stinking of ash and lust, feeling oddly guilty.

Meanwhile in Capitol-land, it’s revealed that Katniss has dropped an entire nest of tracker jackers right on top of _PeetaandtheCareers,_ killing Glimmer and potentially others.

 ~~That’s my girl. Vicious~~.

Furthermore, today’s gossip centers around the fact that Peeta saved Katniss from Cato, and paid for it in blood.

I feel even guiltier.

 

——————

 

After Rue dies, the Capitol sends camera people into the District.

They poke around where they’re not wanted, with their taloned fingers, their curved eyelashes, and their fancy camera equipment that cost more than a year’s wages in the mine. Everything about them is unnatural and obscene.

First they interview Peeta’s family. I see his parents broadcast across the square, saying things like, _He’s a good boy_ and _We’re holding out hope for him_.

Up next on TV, Katniss’s mother is dark eyed and weary. Delicate Prim stands next to her, holding her hand and smiling, still trying to pretend that her pain is a secret.

Both of them say, _If you want to get to know the real Katniss, go talk to Gale._

 

——————

 

Madge Undersee tells the Capitol crew that I’m Katniss’ cousin.

She tells me this herself, later on in the afternoon, kicking up a clump of dirt and looking up at me with wide blue eyes blinking silent accusation:  _youshouldbegratefultomeyouass_. My anger is so swift and immediate, it startles even me. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

She takes a step back, unbalanced by my rage. “I thought you would be relieved. Now, Katniss can be safe. The Capitol shouldn’t have to know how you feel.”

I’m well aware that Katniss’s supposed great _love_ for Peeta — and his real emotion for her — is saving her, earning her sponsors, keeping her heart beating. I’m also aware that the whole star crossed lovers theme ~~can go to hell~~ would be ruined if I were to reveal ~~how I feel~~ the truth.

Even so, covering up Katniss and I’s relationship rankles deeply.

 ~~Hell, everyone in the Seam must know how I feel by now.~~ ~~Everyone except Katniss~~.

I raise my chin and meet Madge’s glare head on. My voice is gravelly, like I’ve just swallowed a mouthful of dirt. The words scrape past my teeth, “Sorry Madge. You’re right.”

She’s gratified. She flounces in her dress that’s easily worth more than a month’s salary, and purses her lips like sour fruit.

I’m suddenly reminded of all the times Katniss and I used to skulk outside the Mayor’s back door, selling strawberries the Capitol decreed we had no right to eat.

 

——————

 

Later, when I’m lying sleepless in bed and there’s no goddamn fucking point, I wonder what I would say, if they _had_ interviewed me.

 _I’m waiting for her to come back to me; I’m waiting to marry her_ —

_Leave us the fuck alone._

 

——————

 

While Katniss kisses Peeta in a cave, I kill animals in a frenzy of frustration, slaughtering them for stews.

My anger is so deep and dark, it frightens me. Lately, if I’m not dreaming of Katniss, I’m dreaming of revolution, of fires and smoke and screams and justice.

Prim and Posy both get penumonia at the same time, and though I spend more hours in the mine and weekends in the woods, it’s still not enough for medicine. When I stop by Katniss’s house bearing broth and bread, Katniss’ mom answers the door, eyes flat and hollow. She is too desperate to remember to thank me. She even forgets to repeat her customary mantra— _Katniss is coming home, wait and see, wait and see._ Her eyes flicker over me impassively. I am not her daughter, I’m no _boyonfire_ , but as the second best option, she’ll take what she can get.

I don’t say that ever since Peeta came in on the scene, I’m Katniss’ second best too.

 ~~It’s not like the fucking odds were ever in my favor to begin with~~.

Lamely, I offer up the supplies. I spoon feed Prim, strong arm the goat, bargain for medicine in the Hob — all because it’s what _she_ would want, what _she_ would expect. I try to ignore the fact that I feel like a whipped husband without any of the benefits. I wish she were here, but she’s busy ~~making out with Peeta~~ fighting for her life.

Seems kind of selfish to say, _honey, the kids are sick and there’s no food, can you please leave the arena and come pull your weight at home?_

 

——————

 

In my sleep, I count the faces of her enemies: Thresh, Cato, Clove, the redheaded, skinny faced girl from District 5 that no one remembers.

 ~~Sometimes, Peeta~~.

I will her alive.

 

——————

 

A horde of muttations chase _PeetaandKatniss_ through the woods.

Cato is hot on their heels. He swings a curved blade the size of my torso, yells, "Goddamn it, we're all dead already!"

What feels like the entire district gathers in the square to watch as _PeetaandKatniss_ climb on top of the Cornucopia, beating back the dogs and slicing arrows through the blackness of night.

Cato takes Peeta hostage — and Katniss impales his hand with an arrow, sending him falling back into the mess of mutts.

 ~~Rory and I are the only ones who cheers aloud~~.

When night gathers to dawn, _PeetaandKatniss_ raise their hands together, ready to tip back handfuls of nightlock — until Claudius Templesmith comes over the broadcast, panicked and breathy, saying—

“Ladies and gentleman, I give you the _winners_ of the 74th Hunger Games,”

And the noise in the square is deafening.

 

——————

 

Katniss comes back nine days later, in a silver train that slices it’s return journey through the countryside.

She and Peeta stand outside the station in front of the whole District, smiling and waving. Peeta wears a suit. Katniss wears a pale, flimsy dress. She’s bare eyed and unadorned, but for a single defensive slash across her lips, of something pink and sweet and fruity.

 ~~I think about how she would taste~~.

Prim’s legs kick across my back. “Hold still,” I tell the girl piggybacked across my shoulders.

“Stop moving,” Prim accuses without any sting, her braids whipping into my face.

“I’m trying,” I grunt. She must weigh barely ninety pounds soaking wet, but she wriggles like a fish.

“Katniss!” Prim calls out, blowing kisses.

Katniss’s eyes snap, seeking out her sister. “Prim!” She calls back. Her gaze travels down from Prim and settles on my face.

She smiles.

 

——————

 

The little time I’ve spent so far with Katniss has been consumed with _interviewsobligationsfamilialneeds_.

She’s still adjusting to life post killing — hell, I try to give her space — so I go hunting alone, burning with frustration.

This particular Sunday is her first on death’s reprieve since August. Bitterly, I celebrate her miraculous return by snaring two turkeys and wishing she were here with me with me to shoot something bigger.

 ~~Like the entire fucking Capitol, for starters~~.

On my way back to the fence, I hear the sound of familiar sobbing and plunge heedlessly towards the sound. This late in the fall, the ground is strewn with leaves, and every footstep I make is a crackling noise.

Katniss sitting with her back up against a tree, head in her hands, sans bow and arrows. She’s crying so hard, she doesn’t hear me approach.

Terror makes me clumsy. “Katniss!” I yell, stumbling a little with desperation. “Katniss! It’s OK! I’m here now. You’re safe. You’re safe with me.”

She raises her head marginally, face blotchy and tear streaked, eyes haunted with all the terrors I witnessed only secondhand.

“Gale,” she whispers, as I sink down beside her, panting, “I see them. I see them all.”

“They can’t hurt you anymore, Katniss. They’re dead.” My finger tips curl into empty air, longing to touch her.

“I know,” and she starts to cry again, thick, heaving sobs that tear me open. Here in the woods where we both learned to be free, her grief is wildly unselfconscious. “They’re all fucking dead.”

I do it because I can’t stand to see the sight of her in pain. I do it without thinking, reaching for her with trembling hands, breathing in the smell of her, pressing my mouth to hers. She tastes like sadness and heat; underneath mine her lips are wet and slippery. I open my mouth against hers, kissing her the way I had to do _at least once_ , and for a second, we are the only people alive in the world, the last two consummate survivors.

She kisses me back, shivering in my arms.

My name, on her lips, is fierce and choked and desperate.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from from Poem XVII (I Do Not Love You)
> 
> I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,  
> or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.  
> I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,  
> in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
> 
> I love you as the plant that never blooms  
> but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;  
> thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,  
> risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
> 
> I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.  
> I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;  
> so I love you because I know no other way
> 
> than this: where I does not exist, nor you,  
> so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,  
> so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.  
> \- Pablo Neruda


End file.
